


Pictures of Matchstick Men

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edge thought it maddening, how quickly the guilt came and, worse, how quickly it was replaced, and there was never shame when he pictured it in the dark.</p><p>A selection of moments taken from Bono and Edge's relationship, from the beginning to now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Technicolour Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming. I started this fic with a very different idea in September of 2014 and tried to make it work, and then a few weeks back I picked out the parts I liked and sent the rest to fic heaven and started off with an altogether new idea. I'd hoped to post it all as a oneshot this week, but I've been having health issues and it just isn't happening. The fic as a whole is about 78% done though, so that's promising!
> 
> I've written this as non-linear and I hope it works without the rest of the sections, as the entire fic jumps back and forth between the years. I've not included which years the sections are set in, but I hope that I've left enough clues in the writing for you, the reader, to figure it out. Title comes from the Status Quo song of the same name . . . it makes sense with the fic. I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> A special shoutout to my beta and bae Deejaymil for dealing with my breakdowns. And grammar atrocities.

 

He was desperate to focus on something else, and he could still hear it if he closed his eyes; that oh-so familiar riff that he’d heard and known since he couldn’t quite recall. He remembered well the night he’d spent trying to capture it when he could barely play three chords. It had spilled into the next day, and his family had never quite listened to Status Quo the same way, but it had been there; it had been right there with his eyes closed and the shift of his hands becoming familiar with each stop and start and the sound bouncing off the walls of his bedroom and then the kitchen and back into his bedroom after a quiet word from his father. He knew it shouldn’t have taken him so long, not when the song was so simple, and he couldn’t remember how old he’d been, but he doubted it had been more than ten years prior.

He’d been waiting for his drink downstairs when it had started to play, that oh-so familiar riff, and he had accompanied the beat with his fingertips against the bar until the glass was in his hand. He was somewhat lost without a guitar and there was Bono across the room, watching him, and Edge had waited for the raised glass and crooked smile that he’d known was coming and when they appeared he’d started on through the crowd with his own glass raised.

An hour or two, it couldn’t be any more than that since he’d crossed the room to take a seat, and his lips were tingling and he couldn’t quite get enough air in. He tried to stay with it, tried to remember the lyrics, but he could only think of chords and Bono hadn’t moved. He was close, he was too close, his breath coming out too fast, and Edge could smell the whiskey on it, taste it when he licked his lips. He hadn’t thought to ever prepare himself for such a moment, and that had been a mistake.

“Edge.”

Bono was looking at him the same way Edge had seen Bono look at crossword puzzles, his right hand still splayed against the wall and his left hand raised like it had forgotten its purpose. Edge took a quick step back. He waited for Bono’s shoulders to sag, he wiped at his mouth and when nothing changed, he turned and walked out of the room.

Edge was glad for the emptiness of the hallway, his ears buzzing like they’d just finished a set. He was careful with the way he walked, one foot slow in front of the other, and he’d drank more on other nights really. He still had his wits about him, and he trailed his fingers down the wall as he went, passing the one room before landing on his own. He double-checked the room number before struggling with his key, shutting the door behind him and feeling the wall for the light switch. He didn’t bother with his shoes, didn’t bother with his jacket, and he sat down on the bed and waited for the room to stop spinning.

He held his breath and closed his eyes, counting to five and allowing himself a second longer before letting the air rush out, and he could see himself in the mirror, red cheeked and tilted slightly to the left. He stared at his fists until he could feel the bite, and he brought them up close to his face and watched the little half-moons until they started to fade.  His skin was crawling, like he was wearing the wrong person, and the whiskey taste was gone from his mouth. He wiped the sweat from his lip and breathed deeply until the urge was gone, and he looked a sorry sight. Edge didn’t know why hotels insisted on placing mirrors where they did. He didn’t know why anyone did anything really.  What it must be like, to experience life the way Bono did; headfirst and loud until he wasn’t, and Edge was never sure of the right words even as he was saying them. They brought a smile or they didn’t, and he’d been on his fourth drink, maybe his fifth, when Bono had leaned in close and whispered, “Constant reassurance, Edge.” The smile had stayed even after his hand had left Edge’s thigh and it had been a mistake.  

“Edge?” A knock followed, soft and not at all like Bono’s usual rat-a-tat, and Edge felt stupid. He’d been waiting for it, really, and still he’d jumped both times. “Edge, listen.”

They were five floors up, and he found himself missing the nights in the back of a van, pressed up together for lack of space. He could escape back then. He was stuck five floors up, and he pushed himself up from the bed and put one foot careful in front of the other as he went, and he listened but the silence kept on. There had been nights after the van, nights where the rooms were so cold that they chose a bed and huddled under the covers, and they’d talk about the ways and hopes of the future. It had usually been Bono that had fallen asleep first, sometimes petering off mid-sentence, and Edge leaned in close, almost certain he’d hear the familiar snores through the door. He could feel it bubbling up, the urge to laugh and he wasn’t sure exactly where it came from, but he felt normal. Calm.

Zen-like, Bono might have called it once or twice, and as quickly as it had hit him it was gone, and Edge was left with the thump of heavy footsteps heading back his way and the incredibly odd feeling one might get seconds before their heart exploded. He didn’t know, he didn’t know how –

“Edge, come on. I’m not mad at you.” Bono’s voice was different in a way that Edge just couldn’t place. He’d never heard it like that before, and he’d gotten to twenty-four confident that he’d heard every which way that Bono’s voice could go. “I’m not, I just – look, I locked myself out of my room, alright?”

The wood felt cool against his forehead, and Edge knew he had to. Tonight or tomorrow were the only options, and Edge knew that Bono could very well keep up the chatter for hours, just as well as he could stretch out on the worn carpet of a hotel hallway and spend the night. He wasn’t mad. Edge breathed deeply and it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t mad.

He opened the door – the quicker the better, his mum had always said after ripping the Band-Aid free – and the smile he got was not the one that Edge expected. “I can come in?” Bono asked. His eyes were shot through and he grabbed at the doorframe with an unsteady hand, and Edge didn’t have a plan. He had ideas, and he regretted most of them as soon as they appeared. He stepped aside, and Bono’s smile kept as he shuffled on in. It wasn’t right. _He_ wasn’t right.

Bono’s steps were slow behind him, and Edge couldn’t quite figure how much they’d both had. He heard Bono stumble slightly, and he’d done that on the way out of the lift, his eyes bright and his grip tight, and he’d laughed until his cheeks had turned.

He could leave.

“Edge.”

“Did you really lock yourself out?”  There was silence, and Edge shut the door. He wanted to laugh, and he very nearly did. It didn’t matter really, and he’d barely believed it to begin with. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”

“I know.”

Bono was sitting on the bed, his thighs pressed tight and his feet splayed and the smile was gone. He looked as small as he was, as small as he never looked, and Edge knew he should stop and it was such a struggle to get the words out. “Then why do you?”

Bono kept his gaze on the carpet, his palms rubbing and his lips thinned as he thought it through, and it had been a mistake. Edge knew he had no right, no right to ask or to even doubt Bono, and he could have left. He could have stayed at the bar. He could have used his brain, _listened_ to himself to keep from ending up where they were. They both had a few years until thirty, and there was Bono looking more drained than he had any right to be at his age. It wasn’t right, and it was almost a relief when Bono shrugged his left shoulder only and gave Edge a wry smile. The defeat was gone, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Bono just looked lost. He raised an eyebrow at Edge and asked, “Why do _you_?”

 

***

 

Edge thought it incredible how the human brain worked, how it stored memories away for years at a time only for them to resurface at the appearance of a forgotten scent or a random phrase. It was like stepping back in time, if only for a moment, and then two hours later he’d walk into the kitchen and immediately forget why he came. He forgot people and faces and the name of the perfume Morleigh wore while shopping for presents, and she’d laughed at him over the phone and pretended to be surprised come Christmas morning. It came with aging, Norman told him regrettably one evening, and Bono had laughed and explained to his brother that Edge had always been a bit like that really. He was the kettle and Bono was the pot it seemed, and Bono had smiled at him in a way he might have done a hundred times, more, and it had taken Edge back to a day when he’d looked across the school yard and seen a boy playing a guitar. It had been a lifetime and yet when he thought back to that day, he could still hear the voice in his head wondering how it was possible that he had more skill with the guitar and yet there was Bono with all the girls.

It was startling sometimes how so much of your life could just slip away. He couldn’t remember Hollie losing her first tooth, but he remembered walking through a record store and slipping a copy of _Boy_ to a shelf towards the front and the shame and euphoria that followed as he walked on out. And when it rained sometimes, he thought of them both on the bus back home, soaked to the bone and laughing, with their hair plastered down and Bono’s shirt verging on see-through and him clinging to a drill as he looked around and saw everyone else holding a sodden umbrella.

He’d barely slept, those first few nights after. He’d kept himself distracted with books and television, and his phone had never been far away. After three days his joints had been aching and his eyes burning, and he’d slipped under the sheets exhausted and found himself brutally awake once the lights were off. He’d spent half the night checking his phone for the time, figuring how many hours he could get if he just drifted off immediately and slept on through, and he’d stayed safe in his thoughts until the desperate hours had arrived. It was often surprising what sort of things came back to him in those moments, and sometimes it was the things he wished he could leave behind, but Edge supposed there was a good reason for all the nostalgia. For the most part, it kept him from imagining all the different ways the brain could just stop.

The house was quiet and Bono was smiling, and it was a good way to start the day. Ali had been shrugging on her coat when Edge had arrived, and she’d hugged him tight and given him a rundown between calling for the kids and some things never changed. There had been hellos and goodbyes and the kids had followed Ali out the door dutifully, and Edge had been left standing alone in the foyer.

He made them both a cup of tea and cleared the books and pens and notebooks from the bed before sitting down at Bono’s feet, and he regretted his choice immediately when Bono kicked him from under the covers. “I had a system going there.”

“You had a mess,” Edge corrected, and Bono kicked him again. His hair was a disaster and his eyes red, but he was smiling and that was enough for Edge. “Working on something?”

Bono sighed. “Just an idea. Or four. Four ideas.”

“For the tour?”

“Mmm. Maybe some words as well.” He gave Edge a wry smile. “I suppose one could say this was a blessing in disguise.”

“I suppose,” Edge said. Bono sipped from his mug and looked out the window, and Edge glanced down at the neat pile he’d made. He was tempted to look, but the urge passed quickly. Bono always showed him when he was ready. “I didn’t think you still wrote in notebooks.”

“Sometimes I do,” Bono said, and he kept his gaze on the window.

Edge downed half his tea and stood up. He set his mug down on the side table and sat down close by Bono’s hip. “Did I tell you I made a New Year’s resolution?”

Bono raised an eyebrow. “No, you did not.”

“It was to go to church every week,” Edge said, and Bono started to laugh. “I could probably catch up with Ali and the kids if I left now.”

“You could probably catch up to her on foot.” Bono shook his head, but he was still smiling. “Failed in the first week, Edge. That’s just- it’s sad, is what it is.”

It was calm down along the beach, with the waves rolling gently against the sand and only two people in the distance that he could see, and Edge doubted they would walk that far. They went slow, and Edge was sure that they could go slower still, but he knew what saying anything would get him so he just held onto Bono’s arm and watched their feet in the sand. “Are you warm enough?” he couldn’t help but ask, and he got the look he knew he would and he could only imagine what Bono’s retort would be.

“Look at the water,” Bono said instead, and Edge did. It looked the same as it often did, and Bono just kept on staring. Edge left him standing there in his green hat, black pea coat and navy pyjama pants, and from a few steps back it wasn’t immediately noticeable that Bono had one sleeve off. Edge took his phone from his coat pocket, and Bono turned his head slightly when the shutter went off, and Edge took another photo just for the hell of it. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and picked up the single white rock in the small clutter of dark ones and took a few steps forward. He placed the rock in Bono’s right hand and Bono looked down at it. “What’s that for?”

Edge shrugged. He really didn’t know why, and he was sure Bono wasn’t really bothered. “Just stood out,” he said, and Bono smiled. He kept the rock in his hand as they walked back, and when they were nearly home Edge wrapped his arm around Bono’s waist and pulled him closer. He was doing better, but it still felt like a part of him had slipped away.

He helped Bono with his shoes and his coat and allowed him the freedom to deal with his hat and scarf, and he took their mugs to the kitchen and rinsed them out then opened the fridge and had a look. It was well stocked, it always was with Ali keeping on top of things, but he went for water and fruit and joined Bono back in the bedroom. It was warm in the house and Edge opted out of joining Bono under the covers, and Bono frowned at him and turned on the television. The rock was sitting next to his bedside lamp, and Edge was sure that Bono was going to keep it and slowly forget about it, like he did with most little things until Ali tried to get rid of them.  They ate while they watched the news, and Edge couldn’t concentrate enough to care about what he was seeing. He slipped under the covers and ignored the smile that appeared on Bono’s face, and he was sure that he’d overheat in no time but it didn’t matter. Bono’s hand was sticky and he tasted like oranges, and Edge kissed him again and touched his cheek, and he kept his eyes on Bono as he brought his head down on the pillow.

 

***

 

Life begins at forty, they had always said. Edge had heard it more and more in the months leading up, then four times in two hours from the one person on his actual birthday, and less and less in the days after. It hadn’t felt much like a beginning, those two and a bit months since.

He wasn’t sure where Larry had gotten off to, but Adam was across the aisle staring at a magazine so intently that Edge knew he was looking straight on past the words. He squeezed his eyes tight and stared a bit more, and they were all tired and still had an entire country to play to. Bono shifted and tapped his fingers against the arm, and he’d been looking out at the clouds from the moment they’d taken off their seatbelts. He smiled at Edge, but there wasn’t much in it, and then he was back out the window. He was a bit dark behind the eyes, and Edge knew asking Bono if he was alright would get them both nowhere. He looked at the back of Bono’s head, at the curve of his ear and the line of his jaw, and a thought came to him that seemed ludicrous until it wasn’t, and he glanced around the cabin and found Adam with his head back and his eyes closed, and Larry further up chatting to Sheila, and Edge’s stomach twisted like it hadn’t in quite some time. He shifted in his seat and glanced back at Bono, and a part of him expected to see Bono watching him like he knew what was going on up in Edge’s brain. Sometimes he did know, especially when what was going on upstairs had dealings with what was going on further south, and sometimes Edge knew he mystified Bono completely. He liked it both ways.

Bono was still looking out at the clouds, and Edge very nearly decided to not worry about it. He knew it would be worth it though, knew it might get that look from Bono’s eyes and that it might bring him closer to finding those new beginnings, and he leaned closer until Bono had to turn around. “I think I might go to the loo,” he announced, and Bono’s lip quirked.

“Incredible. Keep me posted.” He went to turn back but stopped when Edge’s palm landed on his thigh.

“I was thinking,” Edge said quietly, “That you should join me.”

It took a moment, and when realization hit Bono’s eyebrows shot up and his lips parted but the smile came quick enough. “Ooh, Mr The Edge,” Bono murmured, and Edge grinned and stood up before he could even think about overthinking the situation. He stayed casual on his way towards the toilets, and he felt like everyone’s eyes were on him, though when he glanced back it was like he hadn’t even moved. He shut the door behind him and left it unlocked, and he looked around the cramped space and tried to form a plan. He was sure people would notice that they were both gone. He went for the door and it opened, and Bono slipped inside and locked the door before turning to Edge with that look on his face.

“This was a terrible idea,” Edge said.

“I agree completely.” Bono smiled and took a half-step until they were pressed together, and he said, “One of your better terrible ideas though, don’t you think?”

 

***

 

He didn’t have to go far to find him, and Edge was thankful for that. He pulled his coat tighter still, but the cold bit into his nose and his ears and there was Bono, shoeless on the pavement with his forearms bare. He had a fingertip in his mouth, chewing absently on a nail as he looked out at the empty street. It was a healthier habit than smoking, Edge supposed, and he wondered if Bono realized he was shaking. It was simply from the cold, Edge was almost sure, and he took a step back towards the door and then shuffled on forward.

He sat down next to Bono, the cool of the pavement seeping through his jeans quickly, too quick for his liking, and he waited. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was always just around the corner when Bono was concerned.  It was one of the few constants that he could count on in life.

But Bono just kept on looking ahead, hands balled by his side now and eventually Edge just had to ask, “Do you want to go back inside?”

Bono shook his head. “I’m tired, Edge. _Tired_.”

Edge nodded. He knew that tired. It was the sort that bled through your skin to settle in your bones, and it lingered. He reached down and found Bono’s hand, and Edge didn’t know how he could stand it. He stroked Bono’s hand until it unfurled enough to grasp and rubbed his fingers until they started to warm, and the trembling kept on. Berlin was starting to wake up, and the sounds of liberation were growing dimmer with each passing day. Bono rested his cheek on Edge’s shoulder and sighed. He turned until his face was buried in Edge’s neck and moaned, “Take me home, Edge.”

This country was suffocating them.

 


	2. Make Me Stay A Little Bit Longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this took so long, I had planned on it being a week between chapters, max, but life happens, so here we are. I'm not going to make a promise on how long the next chapter is going to take, since I still have two more sections to complete, but I'm feeling better so I hope that helps things speed along nicely, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thanks again to my beta and bae, Deejaymil, for being so damn wonderful.

He’d been young and stupid when he’d thought to ask, and he couldn’t quite remember what had spurred him on. He remembered though, the look Bono gave him, after he’d leaned in and asked, “Do you think dying is like falling asleep?”

They’d barely talked about Iris, those first few years, and the thought had sprung to mind and left his lips so quickly that he hadn’t had time to really think it through. Regret had come fast, Edge remembered that as easily as he remembered watching Bono from the doorway, feet on the couch, pen in his hand and his fingers running through his hair and the steady hum of the fan behind him. There were things he remembered that he wished he didn’t, and he was sure that there was so much more that had just slipped away for a time, but he’d never regretted crossing the room that night. There had been times that he wished he could.

It had occurred to him early on, the sense of responsibility, and later, the knowledge of how badly he could hurt a person if he wasn’t careful.

He’d been young and stupid and Bono had given him that look, and the silence had stretched on for what had felt like an age, but looking back, Edge was sure had actually only been a few seconds. He’d added, “You know, how you never know when you’re falling asleep,” like it was a way out, and he’d sat back in his chair and thought that he was stupid, so stupid.

Bono had been quiet; his eyes fixed to the ground as he thought it through, and when he’d looked up there had been a small smile on his face. “I hope so,” he’d said, and that had been that.

It had been on his mind from the moment he’d woken up properly, once the early morning fog had left him. It was still early, the shadows only starting to slip away from the room. They’d been late going to sleep, but Edge was sure that he was done for the night. He turned on the bedside lamp, and Bono didn’t wake.

He was younger when he was asleep, his face unguarded like it might have been before it all. Edge watched him sleep. He hadn’t had the chance to for a while, didn’t know when he would again so he took it all in, the curl of his fingers, the lines smoothed out. He couldn’t help himself; he reached out a finger and brushed just along Bono’s cheekbone, knowing he still wouldn’t wake. The angles were starting to reappear in his face, and Edge wished it were different.

The phone cut through the still of the room, and Edge nearly jumped out of his skin. Bono shifted but kept on sleeping, and Edge snatched up the receiver before it could offend a second time. It took him a moment to compose himself, and he kept his voice low as he answered, “Hello?”

“Hi, Edge,” Ali said brightly, too brightly for however early it was. “I’m sorry to call so early, but-”

“No, it’s fine, I was awake anyway.” He carefully pushed the covers back and turned until he was hunched over the side of the bed, the carpet soft against his toes.

“Were you now?” She huffed out a laugh that Edge didn’t quite buy. “Or have you not been to bed yet?”

“I can only imagine why you might think that of me, love.”

“Well, past experiences, you know.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Of course not.” Ali hesitated, and Edge could almost picture her on the other end, a cup of tea at hand, and he hoped she’d slept. “Anyway, I was just calling . . .” she trailed off, and Edge didn’t need to hear the rest. He glanced behind him, but Bono hadn’t stirred.

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“Oh. Oh, well that’s good, I was just-” She laughed, a little awkwardly. “I called the hotel and they told me he’d checked out, and his mobile phone was off, but-”

“It was kind of a last minute thing last night, but he’s fine, Ali. Hogged the blankets half the night though.”

“He does that,” she murmured.

“Don’t I know it.”

It slipped out, came out all wrong and it was stupid, so stupid, but Ali continued on like he’d not even spoken. “Is he sleeping?”

“He is. I could-”

“No, let him sleep.” She sighed. “I’m just worried.”

“He just needed a break, I think.” He felt terrible for it, but he’d been relieved when Bono had slipped into the car beside him after the show. Edge had half expected Bono to change his mind, direct the driver towards the airport, but Bono had spent the entire trip back to the hotel watching the city passing by. Edge figured it had been a rash decision, but Bono’s suitcase had been by the couch when they’d walked into Edge’s room.

“It’s too much,” she said quietly, and Edge couldn’t disagree. Bono had been distant on the drive back, quiet on the journey up to Edge’s room, but Edge had seen it all slip away once the door had closed behind them.

“I know.”

There was a pause, and Edge listened to her breathing, harsh to soft. They fell into pleasantries, her voice bright, too bright as she went. It wasn’t them, but Edge told her about the hotel when she asked, described the bathroom walls like blue marble was the most important matter of the day, and when she laughed Edge felt for a moment like everything would be alright. They said their goodbyes and he listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before hanging the phone up, and then he was back to quiet. He looked down at the carpet and listened to Bono breathe.

It had been a couple of weeks since he’d last seen Ali, and she’d handed John over to Edge before sitting down. She was always beautiful, but she’d looked so tired that Edge had suggested she go and have a lie down. She’d just smiled and rested her head on Edge’s shoulder. They’d stayed like that for a few minutes, watching as Bono and the girls kicked the ball around outside. Bono had been laughing, grass stains on his knees and his hair a mess, and they had been playing so close to the window that it had started to become a worry.

Ali hadn’t seemed bothered by it. She’d looked down when John had stirred, touched his fingers and smiled, and her face had turned serious when she’d looked at Edge. “You look so worn, Edge,” she’d said.

He’d not expected it, and he’d been surprised at the burst of emotion that had rushed from his chest to his throat. “I’m okay.” Ali had nodded, but Edge knew that she’d always been able to see right through him.

“How did she sound?”

Edge sighed. He pulled his legs up and brought his head down onto the pillow, and Bono smiled faintly. He looked almost as rough as his voice sounded, and Edge forced a smile. “She’s fine, Bono.”

Bono nodded. The smile came again, and Edge could see right through it. “Good.”

They ordered room service, and Bono showered while they waited for it to arrive. Edge wandered through the suite, picked up a book and flicked through a couple of pages before setting it back down, turned on the television for background noise and found himself by the window, staring down at the street below. It brought him back to another time, when he’d looked out the window and seen grey skies and scattered people all dressed alike. Bono had come up behind him and wrapped his arms around Edge’s neck, and his damp hair had brushed against Edge’s cheek.

“What can I do, Edge?” His voice had been a low rasp, too much use, not enough rest and Edge had felt like the cause of it all. He’d turned his head, breathed in the scent of Bono’s aftershave, and Bono had asked again, “What can I do?”

He’s asked Bono to stay. It had been a different window, a different city, but the grey was there and the country was the same, and all that was missing was the cigarette between his fingers.

They ate scrambled eggs in front of the television and finished it off with a strong cup of coffee, and Bono flicked through the channels until he landed back on the morning news. It was all in German and Edge had a limited understanding, but the images helped paint a certain kind of picture, and it was more of the same. He left Bono with the news and cleared their dishes before stepping under the shower, and he kept the water as hot as he could bear.

He’d went in knowing he should be quick and stayed under for far too long, and the room was filled with steam when he left the shower. He dried himself quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist and wiped the mirror before brushing his teeth. He rinsed his mouth out and stood there, staring at his reflection. His chest was red still from the heat of the water, and he pressed his finger against his skin and watched the white appear and slowly fade.

Bono had put on a shirt and was back in bed when Edge left the bathroom, his left arm wrapped tightly around his chest while his right held a cigarette. It was a non-smoking room, and Edge bit his tongue and headed for his suitcase. He could feel Bono’s eyes on him as he rummaged, and when he turned Bono was looking at him sullenly. It was a change from how he’d been on the couch, and Edge found himself torn on how to proceed. He zipped his jeans and sat in the chair, and Bono took another drag. He’d been saying for months that he’d given up, and before that when he’d been trying to kick it the standard response had been a grumbled, “Well, I don’t inhale.” He’d said the same thing in the early days, with a grin and a wink and Edge had rolled his eyes all the same, and in the last few months he’d wondered if he should tell Bono he could taste it whenever they kissed. He had a feeling Bono already knew.

He slipped on his shoes, leaning down to lace them, and he didn’t have to wait long. “Where are you going?” Bono asked.

“Just out for a bit.”

Bono stubbed his cigarette out on a saucer, and Edge hoped that it didn’t stain. “Truly a man of many words, The Edge.”

Another cigarette was lit, a stream of smoke blown through the air. It felt like the beginning of any interrogation that Edge had seen in the movies, and he smiled tightly at Bono. “I was just going for a walk, Bono. To get a bit of air, alright?”

Bono rubbed his mouth. He looked down at the covers and nodded. “Alright.”

It didn’t feel alright, and Edge sat there with one shoe untied. “Do you want to come along?”

“No. Thank you.”

Edge nodded. He finished lacing his shoe before slipping on a shirt, and he shrugged on a jacket and went searching for his baseball cap. “It’s still early, you know,” he said.

Bono let out a short laugh. “Jesus, Edge, I’d barely noticed.”

Edge looked at him. “I meant, there’s still a few hours before people are going to start wanting you for this and that. Maybe you should get some sleep.” He checked to make sure his room keycard was in his wallet before slipping it into his pocket. “It’ll do you some good, B.”

“I’m meant to be in Dublin,” Bono said quietly, and Edge sighed.

“But you’re not, and when people find that out, well.” He shrugged. “There’s always something they need you for.”

“Mmm.” Bono stubbed out his cigarette and pushed the saucer towards the centre of the side table. He rubbed his fingers and looked towards the window, and Edge felt torn. He’d stood there in front of the mirror, waiting for his skin to turn, and it had hit him suddenly. He’d splashed his face with cold water and gripped the counter as he’d tried to draw in a full breath, and it hadn’t come easy. He rubbed at his chest, and when he glanced up Bono was looking at him. “Edge?”

“What is it?”

“Stay,” Bono said simply, and Edge’s mind was made up. He closed the bedroom door, placed his hat on the chair and slipped off his shoes, then walked around the bed. Bono’s shirt came off and Edge’s jeans and shirt ended up in a pile on the floor, and he could taste the smokes when he kissed Bono, and it didn’t matter. Edge pulled him closer and they both ignored the phone that rang and rang and stopped until it was late enough in the morning that lunch was well on its way to being prepared, and Edge found himself standing naked by the window.

It was a different scene than earlier, more people in more colours and the sun casting perfect shadows along the street, and he smiled, watched for a bit longer before turning back towards the bed. Bono was facing him, his hand curled by his face on the pillow and the sheet low against his thigh. Edge went and stretched out next to him, and he stared up at the ceiling until he got sick of the patterns on the tiles. He rolled over and watched Bono’s back until he matched him, breath for breath, and he reached out a hand when the urge became too great. He kept his touch light and slowly trailed from shoulder to thigh, and then back up a little until he felt the jut of Bono’s hipbone. He kept his hand there and listened to Bono breathe. He had hung the do not disturb sign out on the door handle and taken the phone off the hook, and he was sure that Bono would sleep for hours.

 

***

 

He awoke feeling warm, too warm, and it rolled over him gently and he stretched his back and bent his knees and opened his eyes. It was regrettable, waking up. He couldn’t remember falling asleep but then who ever did, and he stayed there under the covers until the warm turned to suffocating and he had to escape.

He flicked on the light and straightened out the bed until it looked like it had when they’d arrived – late, and later still by the time they made it through the city – and Edge shifted his suitcase into the corner where it was well out of the way. He knew Bono didn’t mind, but Edge had always been a firm believer in occupying a guest bedroom in the way it should be occupied, though sometimes that was forgotten after a night out on the town.

He used the toilet and washed his hands and then his face, and he still felt a bit slow in both mind and body but at least his head had stopped pounding. He’d checked his phone for the time not long after two and had hadn’t remembered much more after that, but he’d been wide awake in time to watch the sun come up and he’d prowled the apartment quietly in his bathrobe and socks before settling down by the window with toast and a strong cup of coffee, and Bono had joined him bleary eyed not half an hour later.

He’d had two mugs in his hand, tea instead of coffee, and he’d made Edge’s with no sugar and the barest of milk and it had been perfect. Edge had looked out at the sky while he drank; he’d gotten up and went on the balcony to watch the traffic below while Bono dozed on the couch and he’d fared all of four minutes outside before the cold had become too oppressive. He’d set their dishes in the sink and left Bono on the couch and he’d managed to shower and shave before admitting defeat and climbing back into bed.

He unplugged his phone and slipped it into his pocket and closed the bedroom door behind him, and the place was quiet. Edge checked the main bedroom and the bathroom and came up empty, and he trudged into the kitchen and spotted the note on the counter, scrawled in red and rushed, even for Bono. He read it twice and shook his head, and sometimes he wished he had Bono’s energy and drive, but mostly he was glad to keep his feet on the ground. He turned on some music and boiled himself an egg and made another cup of tea and checked his emails while he ate. There was nothing urgent and he was glad for it, and he found himself just sitting and enjoying the calm. He loved Bono’s apartment, loved the grey and the light of it. It was different being the only one home, and it gave him time to look around, to admire the lines and wonder how it had all come about. His phone vibrating against the wood of the table cut through the calm and for a moment he considered just ignoring it.

He was on the street and inside a cab in minutes, and he did up his seatbelt and gave the address and he thought of his dirty plate still sitting on the dining room table. He’d dripped egg yolk and left it, and he was sure that it would stain Ali’s beautiful plate and she was halfway around the world. Edge looked out the window at the people walking by, in their thick coats and scarves and gloves. He took his phone out of his pocket and it slipped from his hand to the seat, and he reached for it and gripped it until his arm was shaking.

 

***

 

The streets of Madison passed them by quickly, and it was a blur to Edge whenever he tried to focus; buildings and streetlamps, people in groups and others alone, and the streak of headlights as cars kept up to them, pulled ahead or were left behind. He couldn’t make sense of it, and the faces of the front row were right there whenever he closed his eyes, their eyes lit up and their teeth flashing, and it was a streak that Edge hoped to continue.  “Chicago loves us,” Adam had said during rehearsal, and Edge couldn’t dispute it, no matter how much could change in four years. He’d seen Bono’s face before the show and the spark that came after, and they had a day in between stops to keep the momentum going.

“I’ve always wanted to swim in the lakes here,” Bono said, and Edge had to smile. He sounded wistful, like they’d had so many chances before and wasted it, like there weren’t a thousand other things Bono had always wanted to do until he forgot. Once his feet hit the tarmac in Chicago, the lakes of Madison would be a distant memory until next time they flew in, Edge was sure of it. “Thinking, The Edge?”

“Mmm.”

Bono rubbed at his neck, ran a hand over his head like he still had some hair to fiddle with, and gave Edge a smile that started gentle and settled warm and low in Edge’s belly. Bono knew it, he always knew, and there was a party in their name back at the hotel, with too many eyes on them and not enough time. It was dangerous territory, and he looked to the line of Bono’s jaw and had to remind himself that the front section of the vehicle was occupied by those who heard and saw everything. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Just thinking,” Edge said, and out came that smile again. There was a shine to Bono’s chest and too much colour at his cheeks and Edge could see him on his back, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut. He could see the flush of pink at Bono’s neck and feel the damp against his lips, the bead of sweat that trailed down Bono’s temple and blotted the pillowcase. Edge looked out the window and it was all a blur. “We should skip the party tonight.”

“Should we now?” Bono gave him a look, and Edge couldn’t make it last.

“No,” he sighed. “No, it would be terribly rude of us, I would think.”

“It would,” Bono agreed. His hand came down warm against Edge’s, his palm clammy and fingers loose, and it was a bastard move. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Edge. For a moment there, I thought I might have to stand up and be the voice of reason.” Bono’s touch was light, his fingertips back and forth over Edge’s knuckles and his thumb stirring the hair at his wrist. It was like Bono might have done before Lovetown, when they could both deny it until they were drunk enough to reach for the others hand and pretend like it was less than it was, pretend upon waking that it had never happened, that it was normal. He’d pictured it some mornings, relived it alone in beds that could fit two and it had been enough; the simple drag of thumb and finger had been enough for him until it wasn’t.

He’d told Bono later, two years, maybe three, and Bono had smiled and kissed his palm, leaned in close and kissed his neck, and his lips had brushed against Edge’s ear as he spoke; his breath warm and his voice low.

They turned left and things seemed clearer, and Bono’s fingers tangled with his. They were almost at the hotel, and Edge glanced back towards Bono. His face was blank and his gaze straight on, and Edge followed his lead until the murmurs from the front started up again. He folded their fingers down and ignored the grin at his right until Bono leaned in close, his voice low as he asked, “Would you fuck me tonight?”

 

***

 

“Oh, for fuck sake,” Bono muttered, and he struggled with the lock and let the door swing shut behind him. Edge held it closed with his palm and counted to five, and then added a few more beats just to be sure before slipping out himself. He rested his back against the wall, trying to find that moment of peace, and when that didn’t work he looked down the aisle for the beacon of light that was Bono’s hair. Reminiscent of a lightning rod in a storm, Adam had put it delicately. Larry had never been one for delicate, but it had been soft against Edge’s fingers and Bono’s smile had been even brighter.

Bono wasn’t in his seat, and Edge wasn’t surprised. He shuffled down the aisle, slow while Bono had wanted fast, and sometimes Edge couldn’t help himself. He nearly stopped, but Bono was looking towards the clouds, Larry had taken out his earbuds, and Edge didn’t really need the window seat anyway.

Adam had a book in his hand that he wasn’t reading and a smile on his face as he looked Edge’s way, and Edge slumped into the seat and rubbed at his face. Adam was still grinning at him when his hands fell, and he leaned in close before Edge could mentally prepare himself for whatever was about to come. “Were you aware,” Adam said, “That Bono is in fact not made of glass?”

Edge stared at him, and Adam just kept on smiling. “You heard that?” he managed, and Adam laughed. It didn’t do much to help Edge find that moment, and he glanced around at all the familiar faces and wondered what they knew.

“It’s alright,” Adam said. “I just so happened to be nearby stretching my legs.” He patted Edge’s knee and let his hand rest there, and his face turned serious fast. “He’s right though.”

“I know that,” Edge said, and Adam didn’t look like he believed him. “It’s just-” He shrugged. “He usually bounces.”

“It just took a bit longer this time,” Adam mused. Edge didn’t quite have a response, and Adam smiled at him before opening his book.

 

***

 

It was a strange feeling, knowing you were being lied to. It wasn’t something he enjoyed, and yet Edge found himself smiling right on back at Bono like he was expected to. He couldn’t call Bono out on the lie, he knew he couldn’t. In the right moment, Bono always believed the words he was saying. “Alright,” he said, and Ali’s lips thinned. Edge could only imagine what she was thinking. “Thanks.” It wasn’t what he’d wanted to say, but it was worth it for the way Bono’s smile grew. It was typical, so typical of him, and he stood in the mud as Bono took Ali’s hand in his own and gave him that look.

“Shall we?” Bono didn’t wait for an answer; he turned and walked with Ali quick at his side, and when she looked back her face was calm, her eyes bright, and her smile was one that Edge had seen before. She never said it, but sometimes Edge wondered if she knew. She always pulled Edge tight and kissed his cheek before leaving, cupped his chin until he smiled at her, and she’d always been smarter than them all.

“I won’t,” Bono had said, and they made it through half a set before Bono changed his mind, and Edge craned his neck upward until he couldn’t look anymore. He glanced down, watched his fingers shift, watched the crowd surge, and waited until Bono came back down to earth.  

“We have to stick together, you and I,” Ali told him the next day, and Edge rubbed at his neck and laughed. She just smiled at him and pulled him close, kissed his cheek and sighed. He watched them go, hand in hand, and he waved until the car was well down the road. He considered joining Adam in the bar and doing some soul searching, considered continuing on down the road and onwards until he got turned around, and it all seemed like too much effort.

He went upstairs and sat by the window, watching the traffic down below until he couldn’t stand the quiet anymore. He flicked through the channels and landed on an old black and white movie, and he turned the volume up as far as he dared before stretching out on the bed.  

The knock came sooner than Edge had anticipated, and he sat up fast and wiped his mouth, wiped the grit from his eyes and stared blankly at the television. There was a woman with dark hair, bundled warm against the snow at her feet, and Edge was sure that he’d been dreaming. The knock came again and Edge turned off the television as he went. Bono had a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Edge was sure he was drained from his prolonged goodbye. It was always the same at the airport, always Ali trying to walk away and laughing when she was pulled back in for one more kiss.

They walked the streets, sticking to the shade until even that wasn’t enough, and they found themselves in the dining room of a McDonalds. It was too late for lunch, almost too early for dinner, and they wiped the sweat away with borrowed napkins and watched the people passing by. They shared a shake – two straws and chocolate, though Edge had always preferred vanilla – and they had enough change for more, but Bono had other ideas. He let Edge have the final sip and sat back in his seat, drummed his fingers against the table and shook his head. “I don’t know how they can stand it.”

“The heat?” Edge shrugged. “I suppose it’s what they’re used to.”

Bono sighed like he’d expected a different answer, and it was all Edge had to give. He went up to the counter and came back with another drink and a borrowed pen, and they played Hangman on napkins until the sun disappeared behind the clouds. They left with a burger each and a fries to share, and they walked back slow and stopped in at a liquor store the next street over. The fries were gone by the time they reached their hotel, and they sat with their feet in the pool and ate their burgers with a pricey bottle of vodka between them, hidden still in its brown paper bag.

Edge watched the kids splash around in the other end and listened as Bono talked; starting with the tour before going off on a tangent, and it was always the things that popped into Bono’s head and had to be said there and then that Edge enjoyed the most. He smiled and drank from the bottle, and watched the children climb out of the pool ahead as Bono meandered back onto talking about setlists.  The mother was there with towels ready, and she looked their way, ushering the kids towards the gate and smiling when Bono raised a hand. It shut behind them with a clang, and they were alone. “It’ll be dark soon,” Edge said, and Bono smiled.

He watched as Bono stripped down to his underwear and jumped into the pool, and he ignored Bono’s demands and kicked away the hand that found his ankle and drank until his limbs felt loose and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing right on back. Still, he waited until the outside lights flickered on before setting his clothes aside and slipping into the water. It was too cold and then it was perfect, and Bono crowded him against the side with a smile that was almost too much. “You know you shouldn’t drink before swimming, Edge,” he teased, and snaked a hand over Edge’s shoulder. He steadied himself with his other hand, his palm flat against Edge’s side, and he stayed there as he brought the bottle to his lips.

“I’m not drunk,” Edge said, and when Bono’s leg brushed against his own he was glad for it. Glad that he’d not thought to finish the bottle, glad that he’d be able to return home and look Aislinn in the eye in front of friends and families, in front of God.

“Just comfortable, are we?” Bono asked. He was close, still too close, his hair plastered against his forehead and dripping. Edge kept his hand down and resisted the urge, and the smile left Bono’s face gradually.

“Something like that,” Edge said. He laughed, and that was enough to get Bono moving. He set the bottle back down and pushed away from the side, and he kept his gaze on Edge until Edge just had to follow.

They tracked water through the lobby, and Edge smiled at the lady behind the desk. He didn’t get one in return and Edge figured he probably didn’t deserve one. “They really should consider supplying towels by the poolside,” Bono said as they entered the lift, and he reached past Edge and selected the wrong floor number.

Edge headed to his room and Bono followed, and they lost their damp clothes and wrapped themselves in towels and split the remainder of the bottle into two mugs. They sat by the window, and Edge could see the pool lit up down below. It had been a distraction, the water and the lights and he could have stayed down there longer. Could have stayed there all night and onto morning, and sitting down had been a bad idea. “She’d be well over the ocean by now,” Bono said. It was the first time he’d mentioned Ali since she’d left, and he drank quickly and kept his gaze on the sky.

Edge rolled the mug between his palms, and watched the vodka swirl.  “We’ll be home soon.” He had more he wanted to say, things that had seemed important not ten minutes before even, but they weren’t coming to him.

Bono turned in his chair and raised an eyebrow when Edge looked at him. “Are you excited?”

“Of course.”

Bono smiled at him, though it was faint. “Well, let’s drink to that, shall we?”

They had an early start, and Edge kept trying to remind himself that as he finished his mug and suggested they go back out, and Bono shook his head and laughed. He ended up stretched out on the bed watching the ceiling fan turn, and all he could smell was chlorine. He was certain that he should probably get up and shower, but the will to move had left him. The bed dipped, and Bono smiled down at him. It reminded Edge of looking up, looking far up in the distance too many times and wondering. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

“That last bit hit you quick, didn’t it?” Bono chuckled. His mug was still in his hand, still a quarter full, and Edge thought it all a bit unfair really. They had an early start, they had a show tomorrow, and he couldn’t stand it. “I think-”

“Don’t.” He’d said it, and he licked his lips and tried to think of the best way to continue. Bono was still smiling, still looking far too amused and it kept on even after Edge touched his thigh. “You need to stop. Before you hurt yourself.”

Bono shook his head, let out a short laugh. “Edge.”

“It scares the shit out of me.” He’d not gotten that far before, not quite been able to, and it felt so much bigger than what it was. Edge felt like he could move mountains, if only for a moment, and the smile was gone from Bono’s face. He was quiet for a while, rubbing his mouth as he looked at Edge then touching his hair, his neck as he looked anywhere but.

Edge waited, and when Bono turned back his smile was easy, but his eyes spoke a different story completely. Edge had learned a long time ago to never trust a smile when it came to Bono. “Edge,” he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

 


	3. Black Veils of Melancholy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so terribly, extremely sorry this chapter took so long. A whole month, which is about 3 weeks longer than I planned. I am ashamed. Sadly, I had 85% of it finished almost straight away, and then spent the rest of the time crying over the first section, and struggling, and crying some more and then writing and writing until what was meant to be a short section turned into something GIGANTIC. It's fine now, all fine. And it's done, and I'm pretty happy with it! Thank you all to those who read this, and to Likeamadonna who had to deal with a couple of mini breakdowns, and mostly to Deejaymil for dealing with all my nonsense. She beta'd...most of this, and it was terrible. I hope it's clear which years these sections take place, but if not...you know the drill. LOVE

 

It had been there from the second Edge opened his eyes, early, too damn early, and he stayed hidden underneath the covers, allowing himself a moment of self pity and then another. It wasn’t him, he knew it wasn’t, but he let it drag on for far too long until it manifested into something darker, something truly painful, and Edge all but forced himself from the bed.  

He made a cup of tea, walked out onto the balcony and watched the sky turn. The bathrobe he was wearing wasn’t quite thick enough, no matter how tightly he pulled it - and thank God he’d thought to leave his socks on - but he’d spent colder mornings out on a balcony, taking in views worse than the one in front of him.

His room was too far up to make much sense of down below, so Edge kept his eyes ahead, drinking his tea as the sun began to peek through the buildings, streaking the sky with colour. He wasn’t entirely sure he deserved such a view; maybe tomorrow he might be more appreciative, maybe in a week he’d wake up and let it all wash over. But there was a part of him that felt like he had to watch. It was normal.

Routine.

He shuddered, pulled his bathrobe closer still, and he didn’t feel right. Not in his mind, not in his skin, and he’d been there already.

Ten days before, maybe eleven, he’d awoken early to the sun starting to peek through the curtains and it had seemed like it was becoming a trend. He’d tried, he’d tried so hard but his thoughts had raced and he’d rolled over, studied Bono’s back through the dim, watched the rise and fall of sleep. There was something calming about a sleeping Bono, a certain stillness that he couldn’t begin to understand upon waking, and Edge had touched his shoulder, his back, and matched his breathing until the static had all but left him.

The room had grown lighter and Edge had thought maybe he could settle back down, find a thought and stick with it, grab a few hours more. Bono had rolled over to face him, so sudden that Edge hadn’t been ready for it in the least, and he’d been bleary eyed and frowning, his hair mussed, face creased from the pillow. He’d not quite been awake and he’d touched Edge’s arm and asked, “You alright?”

His voice had been little more than a croaked whisper but the smile that had followed had been brilliant, and Edge hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling back. It had been enough. Usually, it was.

It was far too early though, the wind against his face still carrying traces of a frosty night. It was going to snow later, Edge was almost sure. The day just had that feeling about it. He huffed out a breath and smiled. It was something that he used to do when he was a kid, fingers to his lips, the steam masquerading as cigarette smoke, and Dik had never found it quite as funny.

Edge stayed on the balcony, watching the clouds with the cars below like matchbox toys, until his mug was empty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a cigarette quite so badly.

He closed the glass door quietly behind him, latched the lock and drew the curtain, and it was still too early to make the call. Edge rang room service instead, unsure of what he wanted to order until the words just tumbled out of him, and he wandered the suite while he waited. He ended up in front of the television.

There were too many channels and nothing on, and he settled for a kids cartoon that looked vaguely familiar. He muted the sound, sat down on the couch and watched the colours blur until he had to put his head back and close his eyes.

The knock came far too quickly, and Edge nearly jumped out of his skin. He wiped his face, tightened the tie of his bathrobe and answered the door with a pleasant _good morning_. Settling back down, the cartoon had been replaced by the local morning show, and he picked at his food and watched the scroll at the bottom, looking for anything important he might just have missed. He wasn’t that hungry, but he tried, setting aside the plate when he couldn’t eat anymore and concentrating on the coffee; black, strong and not nearly enough.

He allowed himself the luxury of dozing a little longer, and he was half tempted to go and crawl back under the warm covers, but Edge knew it was just a complete waste of time. Still, he was sure he’d slept a few minutes there on the couch, and it had left him feeling a little stupid. He wiped the grit from his eyes and looked to the time in the lower righthand corner of the television, and it felt almost reasonable.

He stepped into the shower and just stood there for a while, the water as hot as he could bear, letting it beat down onto his back, loosening his muscles, and then his face and chest. It woke him up properly, turned him pink and he scrubbed at his face and washed himself thoroughly, and it still didn’t feel like enough. Edge turned off the water, pressed his hand against the glass and breathed deeply. The air was damp and hot, so hot that it left him feeling shaky, and he pushed through it.

He stood up straight, watching his handprint against the glass until it faded, then brushed his fingers against his stomach, through his pubic hair. He grasped his cock, stroked once, twice before tearing his hand away. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t.

Edge wiped his hand against the mirror and looked at himself, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. He dried himself quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and reached for the floss. Routine. He wiped the mirror again as he brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth out and stared at his reflection, before reaching for his razor.

The sheets were cool against his naked skin, and he took a moment there under the drone of the heater before reaching for his Blackberry. He didn’t have to scroll far down the list to find Bono’s name, and he hit the call button after a moment's deliberation - _pick up, come on_ \- and it rang and rang. He was about to give up when Bono answered, a little out of breath. “If this is my wake up call, you’re far too late.”

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Edge. Sleep well?”

“Are you busy?”

There was a pause. “No. No, I’m completely free.”

“Can I come see you?”

“Of course,” Bono said. Edge hunched forward, rubbed at his thigh, and he nearly laughed. He wasn’t sure why, and the giddiness continued, bubbled up in his chest and into his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. “Edge?”

He shook his head. “Great. That’s great, Bono. I’ll be there soon.”

“Are you alright?” Bono’s voice was low, and there was concern there, strong enough to almost ruin him. Edge clutched the phone a little bit tighter, and his breathing rasped through the line. “I’ll come to you, how about that?”

“No, I’ll be around in a minute, alright?”

“Okay,” Bono said after a pause, and he sounded wrong. “See you soon.”

Edge ended the call, set his phone gently down on the bed and quickly stood up. His vision blurred and he nearly pitched straight back onto the bed, and he blinked it away, shook his head and drew in a deep breath.

He moved quickly after that, pulling on the first outfit he landed on then rifling through his suitcase for what he needed. He jammed his shoes straight on, not worrying about unlacing them, and gathered only the essentials into his pockets before leaving the room. He stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass in the sink. He drank, ignoring the _tap tap tap_ of the dripping faucet until he couldn’t. It continued on, even after he tightened it as far as it could go.

It was such a little thing, and it was maddening. On another day there was a good chance he’d stay, find the problem and fix it. Edge watched the water drip for a moment, tempted, but it was too big. He was sure he would lose his mind.

He shut the door quietly behind him, tried the handle to make sure it was locked, and walked down the empty hallway past two doors, his body thrumming like he’d had too much caffeine. He stopped at Bono’s door, flexed his hand a couple of times to stop the trembling, and the door swung open before he could knock.

Bono’s smile was tight, his eyes not leaving Edge’s face as he stepped aside. The door shut behind them, and Bono’s hand found Edge’s wrist. “Are you alright?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m alright,” Edge said. Bono’s eyes flickered back and forth across his face. “I’m fine, Bono.”

“Alright,” Bono murmured. His hand dropped back down to his side, and Edge took him all in. He was fresh from the shower, his hair damp against his neck, and it was almost back to brushing his shoulders. He fiddled with the tie of his bathrobe, cocked his head to the side as he regarded Edge, and Edge reached for the door handle. “Wait-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Edge said. Bono pursed his lips, not entirely convinced, and Edge smiled at him. It was strange, in his room he felt almost like a caged animal, but here he felt calm; calm enough that it didn’t quite seem real. He took the do not disturb sign off of the door handle, opened the door just enough, and hung it on the other side. The door shut with a click, and he turned back to face Bono.

He was looking past Edge to where the sign had been, lip caught between his teeth, twisting the bathrobe tie around his fingers. There was a frown on his face that almost gave Edge pause, but then Bono looked his way, and the lines softened. He smiled in a way that Edge knew, crooked, more lip than teeth, and as always it was the eyes that gave him away. “You thinkin’ something there, Edge?” he asked, his gaze dragging up and down. It had been ten days, maybe eleven since Bono had looked at him like that, since Edge had felt such heat. It hit him hard, and he had to stop himself from rushing ahead.

He stepped in close, trying for casual and knowing that Bono didn’t believe a moment of it, and when Bono chuckled Edge just had to smile. It was as normal as breathing, and Edge needed normal, needed to stay with it, to go slow, gentle, or he wasn’t sure where they might end up.

He set his hand on Bono’s shoulder, and Bono shook his head. “So soon after breakfast, too.” His sigh had the right amount of drama to it, and Edge managed a laugh. Bono watched him, his smile barely there but his eyes, again, giving it all away, and Edge was almost sure that he could make it through the day. “What is it they say about sex after eating?” Bono asked.

“That’s swimming.”

“I don’t think so, Edge.”

“Shhh.” It didn’t always work, often it made the volume go up, the words come out faster, and Bono raised an eyebrow but stayed quiet.

It was sometimes daunting, the control Edge could have over a person, and he didn’t always welcome it. It didn’t always come but Edge knew this time, this time he could manage. “I like you like this,” he said quietly. “Not quite ready to face the world.” He ran his fingers through Bono’s damp hair, eliciting a smile, and Edge was leaning in before he knew it.

He pressed his lips against Bono’s jaw, pulling Bono’s hair gently until his head turned and his neck was exposed. His stubble was rough against Edge’s cheek, and it was a feeling that he felt guilty for craving sometimes when he was under his own roof. He turned into it, his hands dropping to grasp at Bono’s hips tightly, too tight until he had to force them to move.  The bathrobe was soft against his fingers, and he dragged his hands up until Bono’s throat bobbed. “Edge,” he whispered.

Edge thought that he should say something, tell Bono how good he felt, how good he was going to feel, how Edge had been thinking about him, but he couldn’t quite manage it. It was alright, he was sure it was. He’d said it all, enough times that he could see Bono’s expression after, paint a picture in his mind to help him make it through those lonely nights.

He slid his hands down slow, pressed his lips against warm skin and smiled when he felt the shudder run through. “Edge.” Bono’s voice was different, needy, and it left Edge with that same feeling of giddiness he’d had earlier, stuck in his chest and threatening to bubble over.

It was alright, it was. He closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and it was like coming home. “You smell incredible,” he mumbled. It was something he’d said at least a hundred times before, and Bono’s reaction was always different. He stayed quiet this time, his hand coming up to join Edge’s at his hip. He turned his head just so, and it was perfect.

Edge took it all in, Bono’s cologne like springtime,  sharp against his tongue, and underneath he was scrubbed fresh and new. He was a different person in the morning, a different taste, no sweat, no effort, just clean. So clean. Edge could picture it, almost feel the water beat down against his back as he pressed Bono against the glass, his protests fading away with the quick work of an eager hand.

Edge blinked and it was gone, and for a moment he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t breathe. It was coming back fast, thrumming under his skin, pulling in his chest, and he was surrounded by the same smell, the same warmth growing warmer by the second, and he needed more. His breath stuttered in his chest, and Bono’s hand tightened against his, stilling the tremble there, and somehow Edge managed. “No one else gets to have you like this.”

There was a pause, and Edge pulled back enough to see Bono’s expression - _say it, let me have this_ \- and then Bono nodded. “No one,” he echoed, and Edge kissed him. He kept it soft, a gentle slide of the lips, thought he owed Bono that, and when Bono sighed, his breath warm against Edge’s chin, Edge thought he could almost hold it together.

He pulled his hand from Bono’s grasp, tugged at the bathrobe tie until it gave, until he could slip his palm against warm skin. There was a softness at Bono’s hips that Edge knew he wasn’t allowed to say he liked, and he dragged his hand when Bono laughed, tightened his grip when Bono tried to pull away, and kissed him before he could speak. His hair was cool, damp, and Edge grasped it until Bono moaned, his lips parting, breath coming out in little hot bursts as Edge pulled. No, he couldn’t be gentle, couldn’t find it in himself, and when Bono drew him back in, first with a smile, then with a hand, Edge couldn’t think of anything else.

Edge pushed him back, back, pulled him in close and kissed him, catching his lower lip and sucking till Bono let out a sound made it all worthwhile. His eyes were dark, too little blue, and Edge pushed him harder until they stumbled against the arm of the couch. The surprise on Bono’s face slipped away with an unsteady hand, his skin prickling beneath Edge’s fingers. He could feel Bono’s throat working beneath his lips, the soft little noises turning into a drawn out moan when Edge palmed his cock.

Edge turned his face into soft terrycloth, Bono’s grip on his arm tightening, blunt nails digging in harder with each stroke of the hand, and it wasn’t enough. He pulled back.

Bono’s cheeks were flushed, his chest heaving. Edge had seen it all before, and when Bono looked at him, eyes bright, adoring, he knew it wasn't at all what he needed.

He pressed in, until Bono was arching back over the arm of the couch, and they were kissing; teeth bumping, tongues sliding, Bono’s hands at his neck, his waist, fingers scrabbling to clutch at his shirt, and Edge couldn’t get close enough. He gripped Bono’s arse, fingers digging in until Bono gasped, his cock pressed tight against Edge’s thigh. His body was hot, too fucking hot, the skin at his temple - his hairline, his throat, his _throat_ \- like salt against the slide of Edge's tongue.

Edge pulled back, turned Bono around before the protests could come, and pushed him face first over the arm till his feet slid against the carpet. Bono let out a stuttered breath, his arse pressing back against Edge’s crotch, hand pressed flat against the couch, trying, and his body shook when Edge pushed him further. “Edge,” he gasped, pained, and it took Edge a moment. He let up, just enough for Bono to straighten his back a little, teetering on the side of comfort.

A few seconds. Edge thought Bono deserved as much, knew it was all he could spare. He listened to Bono breathe, harsh, too quick, and when Edge touched his back, ran his hand up to grasp at the back of his neck, Bono’s breath caught and there was silence. It lasted only a moment, then Bono turned his head, just enough for Edge to see the smile.

He had ideas, he had so many ideas running through his mind; memories and fantasies only spoken about in the dark, and Edge landed on one, fell to his knees without a second thought. He brushed the bathrobe aside, letting it rest over his shoulder, and Bono made a low noise, realization coming fast. His hips rolled against the couch, and he spread his legs so well, so perfect, that Edge felt for a moment like he was lost underwater.

Pale skin turned paler still under the press of Edge’s fingers, blushed red when he slid in further and parted, the bathrobe falling over his head when he leaned in. It didn’t matter, he only needed to hear, and Bono groaned at the first brush of his tongue, such a sweet sound that always left Edge wanting more. He flattened his tongue, pressed in tighter and Bono gasped, pushed back into his mouth, pushed forward to grind his hips against the couch, and it wouldn’t do.

Edge tightened his grip, nails digging in - little half moons left behind to remind him later, marking him - until he could almost hold Bono in place. He tasted so clean, so dirty, so _Bono_ and Edge nearly lost it - _it’s not for him, it’s not_ \- kept his hands in place, licking and tonguing his hole, pressing in tighter until Bono’s thighs were shaking. It wasn’t enough. Edge had to make him sing.

He pulled back, Bono protesting the loss with reaching hands and sounds that were almost words, and Edge barely heard him. He was burning, low in his belly, tight in the back of his throat, so strong that he could hardly push it aside. 

He brushed the bathrobe away, yelled when it fell back and pulled himself up properly, far enough to reach. He yanked at the sleeve, hard.

Bono yelped, his shoulder coming back, and Edge stopped, waiting to hear the _no_.

It didn't come, but he gave Bono a moment anyway before pulling again - owed him that much at least - and Bono’s arm slipped free. The bathrobe fell away, exposing sweaty skin while covering only his other arm and Bono laughed, breathless, as Edge came back down.

Edge ignored it and reached into his pocket, pushed past his wallet and pulled out the small bottle of lube. His hands shook and he squeezed out too much, dripping onto the floor, and he coated his fingers, dropped the bottle and moved back in.

 _Breathe_.

He held Bono’s arse open with his left hand, fingers sliding, Bono gasping, squirming from the sudden cold. It was familiar, and Edge might have laughed at it another time. He was sure he had.

But they were close, so close.  

Edge squeezed his thighs together, trying to find some friction to see it through, leaned in when he couldn’t hold himself back and flicked his tongue just enough to make Bono’s breath catch. His hole was slick with spit, reddened, and Edge went for two fingers, fast and deep, until Bono was moaning freely, pushing back against his fingers. His hand came down, and stopped an inch from his cock when Edge snapped, “Don’t.”

Bono gripped his arse instead, fingers sliding against Edge’s, pulling his skin tighter and rolling his hips. Edge pulled two fingers free and slipped back in with three, faster and deeper, dragging his left hand out from under Bono’s to press his palm to his crotch. He was hard, painful and trapped under thick denim, every sense screaming at him to get it done, God, just get it done now.

“Edge,” Bono gasped, back arching, hand slipping free and Edge grabbed it before he could reach his cock, his whine like heaven to Edge’s ears. He clenched hard around Edge’s fingers. Sobbed when Edge slowed his hand, stopped, dragged his tongue along his stretched rim, tasting his own fingers.

Beautiful. Bono was still beautiful. Edge turned his head, bit the skin hard where pink turned to white and Bono writhed, noises spilling from his lips that sounded almost like _fuck._ Edge planted a lingering wet kiss there. It would leave a mark.

He slipped his fingers free, the pop wet and obscene, watched Bono clench, his hips tilting. He snatched the bottle, stood up too quickly, heart pounding, hands shaking as he fumbled with his belt, Bono calling his name, desperate, so desperate that Edge nearly lost it.

Somehow, he managed, pulling his belt free after far too much effort. It clattered against the wall and he moved on quickly, his button and fly coming undone much too easily. His pants went down his thigh, underwear going with, and Edge grasped his cock, breath hissing. _Finally_. Pleasure spiked up and down his spine, settling low from a simple touch, tears prickling behind tightly shut eyelids. He had to, he had to.

Edge emptied the bottle onto sticky palms, letting it fall to the ground, making a mess of it all as he slicked his cock. It was almost too much, but he couldn’t give himself a moment. Now, just get it done now.

Bono was almost back upright, turning around to look at him with an expression that Edge didn’t want to see. He pushed him back down, grip tight at the back of his neck. His other hand slid down damp skin, grabbing and pulling until he was holding himself, directing his cock to where he needed to be, now. Now.

There was resistance, and Edge pushed through it in a single thrust. Too hard, he knew it was too hard, Bono’s cry stopping short, his body falling away from Edge’s grasp like his strings had been cut. Edge squeezed his eyes tight, not moving, just relishing the velvet-hot, the tightness squeezing him. Up and down his spine, settling low and thumping loud against his eardrums. He breathed deep, and it didn’t help.

Edge shook his head, opened his eyes to slick skin and dark hair that just wasn’t close enough. He reached out and grabbed, silky soft and cool against his fingers, and Bono came alive, pushing back hard to match his thrusts, his cries like music to Edge’s ears.

He was a furnace, inside and out, back slip-sliding against Edge’s chest, groaning and whimpering like he had a fucking audience to please, and Edge couldn’t find a rhythm. Short, jerky thrusts that weren’t enough. Too hard, too deep, dragging noises from Bono that were enough to almost end him. He wanted it, wanted it fucking _done._ He blinked back the sting in his eyes, gasping, “fuck - oh fuck-”

It left him, just out of reach, and Edge’s breath caught. He wanted to stop, knew that he couldn’t, he never could. He shouted out something, something, and Bono grabbed his wrist. Pulled his hand down, cried out as Edge quickened, the couch shifting against the carpet. It was too much, it was all too much, burning deep, pulling him close.

He lost it again, grabbed Bono tight - too tight, Paul would be furious - and pulled him closer, his breath cutting short, throat working hard against Edge’s palm. His back arched, knees going, and Edge held him there, loosened the grip around his throat when it became too much. He turned his head just so, and _there_. Bono groaned, and he was like summertime, neck salty, cologne sharp, surrounding him. Choking him. He needed it done.

The couch shifted again, fast, hard, and he couldn’t get there. It was dread, pure dread mixing in with the pleasure, the wet slapping that filled the room, Bono making such sweet beautiful sounds, and he couldn’t get there. He lost his rhythm, short, jerky thrusts that took him right on back, and still Bono moaned, and it was a noise that Edge knew well. He focused on it as Bono’s hand dropped, heard it again as Bono began to stroke himself, hard, fast, pressed up against the arm of the couch. He was gasping, jerking back, arse clenching velvet-hot around Edge.

It went up and down his spine, settling low, and Edge could feel it, he could almost make it. He snapped his hips, deep, and Bono let out a choked cry, thighs shaking, head falling, his hand stop-starting against his cock until his entire body was twitching.

Edge felt it, through and through, and he lost it completely, thrusts erratic as Bono gasped and moaned. It burned, too much, tightening in his stomach till it was more pain than pleasure. He couldn’t. Not yet. He needed more, he needed-

It rushed through him, too fast, his nerves alight, white lightning behind his lids. He cried out, shook, and then it was over, as quick as it began, his heart pulsing against his eardrums, too loud and too quick.

He pumped his hips once, twice - _more, God more_ \- trying to chase it, make it roll on through, but they were done.

Bono’s back was hot, slick against Edge’s chest, his breath coming out like he could barely spare the air from his lungs. Edge pressed a hand to Bono’s sternum and tried to match him, breath for breath until it slowed right on down.

He dropped his hand when Bono laughed, a little high, a little strange, and pulled back altogether when Bono started to straighten. His cock slipped free, falling wet against his thigh and Edge took a step back.

He watched Bono right himself, staring until he thought he might almost be able to see right through him. His vision slid. He blinked, squeezed his eyes shut when it did no good, and looked to the carpet. Bono laughed again, still a little strange. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s going to leave a stain.” He gestured to the side of the couch and Edge glanced quickly, noted the wet patch, then looked down at himself.

It was a bit of a mess.

He pulled his pants up, tucked himself back in, zipped up his jeans and wiped his hands on his thighs. He felt sticky. He’d need another shower. A change of clothes. He wiped his hands again, and when Bono’s fingers grasped his arm he didn’t resist.

They ended up huddled together on the floor, Bono murmuring little sweet nothings in Edge’s ear, things that Edge needed to hear, that he’d heard before. He rested his forehead against Bono’s shoulder, eyes closed, relishing the warmth of Bono’s breath against his neck, the rub of his hand, up and down Edge’s back.

He moved back when it became too much, watched Bono slip his arm back into the sleeve, rearranging the bathrobe to cover himself properly. Edge looked towards the side of the couch. Bono was right, it was going to stain. He shifted, rubbed at the back of his wrist as he looked to the door. It was still early, he doubted many doors would be opening yet. It was probably barely dawn across the country.

He was too far from home.

Bono was quiet, head back against the wall, watching him. Edge couldn’t quite meet his eye, and it wasn’t shame exactly - God knows they’d been there before, and Bono’s voice never sounded as sweet as it did when it was hoarse from screaming his name -  it was something else, something Edge didn’t quite recognize, and it sat heavy in his chest.

“Edge.” His voice was gentle, and Edge knew exactly what was coming. “If it’s too much-”

“Bono.”

“Shows can be moved, Edge,” Bono said quietly. “You say the word-”

“I’m alright.” Edge expected a quick response, a carefully practised spiel that could almost break him, but Bono stayed silent, his gaze so sharp, so troubled that he very nearly did lead Edge to ruin.

“Okay,” Bono said. His smile was easy, and Edge didn’t know why he bothered with it. He had to know; after so many years surely he knew Edge could see right through the bullshit. He couldn’t quite fault Bono for it though, not this time, and when Bono reached out a hand, Edge grasped it tightly. His touch was warm, his lips warmer still, and gentle, so gentle as he kissed Edge’s wrist.

Edge didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, but he let it happen, and when Bono glanced up at him, eyes crinkling, Edge just had to smile. It was fleeting, but Bono kept on, turning his head and brushing his cheek against Edge’s knuckles before letting go. He leaned back against the wall, rubbing his palms together and looking towards the carpet, and it reminded Edge of a time, a memory that he just couldn’t pinpoint.

“What are you thinking, Edge?”

“I don’t know,” Edge said. He was tired. He was just tired.

He stood up slowly, held out a hand and helped Bono up like he was still capable, like he was fine. They stood there for a moment, Bono’s gaze back, searching, and then he turned away.

Edge thought that he should leave, go back to his room and try for a few more hours until he was truly needed, but he made it all of two steps back. He stretched out onto the couch and Bono watched him, tying his bathrobe. He didn’t want to go back.

“Do you want me to go?” Edge asked.

Bono shook his head. He leaned over, hand against the armrest for support and smiled. “Don’t you move. Sleep.” He righted himself, stretched his back just so until they both heard the pop, and that, that was something that Edge could feel guilty over. The smile stayed though, and his hand touched Edge’s arm. “Good for the mind, body and soul, sleep is,” he said. “Or so they keep telling me.”

Edge caught his hand, and Bono’s face softened. His thumb brushed against Edge’s knuckles, and then he was pulling away. “Bono-”

“It’s alright,” Bono said.

Edge nodded. He watched Bono walk away, steps stilted, and Edge had stirred something up.  He rolled to his side and listened to the footsteps, the water running as Bono cleaned himself up, and the urge to cry came to him, sudden and completely unwelcome. He didn’t quite know why, and it felt stupid, so stupid. He breathed deep until the urge left him, and concentrated on Bono, his footsteps so soft that Edge could barely hear them, and a Bono trying to be quiet was always an event. Edge waited for it, for whatever it was going to be, and there was a thump, a rattle and a muttered curse, and he smiled. It was familiar, it was all so familiar.

He wandered in his thoughts for a while, until Bono emerged again in dress pants, a purple button- up and socks he should have thrown out months ago. His hair was a mess, sticking up at the back, and Edge was sure that another shower was in order before Bono dared to leave the hotel. He sat at the table, laptop in front of him, and Edge watched him through narrowed eyes.

Bono’s lips moved silently as he read, his gaze drifting to Edge every other minute. He typed slowly, hunched forward in his seat. When he was done, he pushed back against the chair and grimaced, looking back over towards Edge before shutting his laptop.  

Edge closed his eyes properly, felt like he had to, and the chair dragged back against the carpet. Bono approached and stood over him for so long that Edge nearly had to give it all up. He tried to imagine Bono’s expression, tried to figure where his hands were, if they were lax against his sides or somewhere else, rubbing against his mouth, his neck, or in his hair. Bono was predictable until he wasn’t, and when he sighed, Edge wondered what he was thinking.

He stayed like that until Bono walked away, opened his eyes to see Bono across the room, his back to Edge and his phone against his ear. His fingers tapped against his thigh, waiting, and he said, “And a good morning to you too, Mr Shriver.” His voice was warm, low, and there was a beat of silence before he started to chuckle. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. But, you know, something important came up that I just couldn’t leave.”

 

***  


Three days, and they were in a different city, a different hotel, and Edge just didn’t know anymore. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t counting, wasn’t obsessing, that things were fine, but it had been three fucking days and he’d all but pushed Bono out the door.

He’d felt sick, he’d felt positively sick, and Bono had pressed his palm against the door and practically begged Edge that they talk it through - he wasn’t mad, he swore he wasn’t -  when they were both of sounder minds. Edge had tried, over a quiet lunch the next day, and Bono had changed the subject five words in with a wave of the hand, like it was normal. Like it was just something that happened between friends sometimes. He’d smiled, ran a hand through his hair and looked towards the door, and continued on talking about the damn mountains. It had been stilted, wrong, and Edge had seen through it all.

Two can play at that, he’d thought, and he’d leaned back in his chair and let it all drift over him.

It had been three days of nothing, of forced cheerful and strange silences, but there had been enough distractions to get him through. It came back to him strong, late at night, and he thought of Bono’s hand on his thigh as he’d whispered, “Constant reassurance, Edge.” It ran through Edge’s mind, again and again until he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop the guilt, and he wanted to rage. He thought of Bono’s face afterwards, his fucking face after Edge had kissed him, and in the morning, he stayed quiet.

It was a nice enough hotel with an even nicer girl standing behind the reception desk. She looked up as he passed, her smile brilliant, and then her gaze slipped past him. Edge kept walking. He didn’t have to look behind, knew the look on her face, knew the footsteps behind him, and he pressed the up button. Bono appeared at his side.

“You know,” he said, “I’m almost certain those are the same tiles Ali wants for the bathroom.” He pointed back towards the reception, to the wall behind the girl. The tiles were a pale blue with no pattern, completely nondescript, and Bono squinted at them until the doors slid open.

The elevator was empty, and Edge let Bono select their floor. He leaned back against the wall, listening to Bono shift and fidget next to him until the doors opened. The hallway was bare, and Edge got halfway to his room before Bono grabbed his arm. “Edge,” he said. His expression was something new entirely, and Edge smiled tightly and kept on walking. It wasn’t him, it wasn’t, and sometimes he just didn’t know why.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking back, and the hurt was written all over Bono’s face.

Edge closed the door behind him, kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. He stared at his suitcase, and it all seemed like too much effort. He got up, opened the door and looked down the hallway, but Bono was gone. It was for the best, and when Adam turned up almost two hours later, Edge shook his head, told him he was too tired, maybe another night, and then, when he recognized the look on Adam’s face, he gave in. No was not an option, Adam had all but said, and he guided Edge out the door, hand on his shoulder, smiling like Edge had just done something remarkable.

It was a quiet drive, and Edge spent it mostly watching the back of the driver's head. He glanced over a couple of times, when he knew Adam wasn’t looking, and caught his expression. The worry slipped away when Adam glanced back, replaced with a grin, and Edge just smiled back.

There was a small gathering in the back, roped off like they were on display, and Bono was tucked away in the corner, leaning in close to hear whatever his new friend had to say. It had become a common sight, the past few days, and Edge didn’t quite know what to think. He’d felt a bit overwhelmed the first time Sting had spoken to him, and the feeling hadn’t quite gone away. He scanned the group until he spotted Larry and Paul, started towards them, and Adam clapped him on the back and turned him the other way.

Edge had said, before they left his room, that he’d come out for one drink, two at most. He sat down next to Adam and Bono looked at him, smiled a smile that told Edge he was well on his way, and raised his glass. “To The Edge!” he exclaimed, and the glasses went up. Bono drank generously before setting his glass down, and he leaned back in his seat, his smile turning dark. “What an honour it is, being in your presence.”

He kept on staring at Edge, and Adam shifted in his seat, glanced around the room and turned to Edge with a smile so big it could only be fake. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, and Edge was all but desperate for one. He got up and followed Adam to the bar, and when Adam leaned in close to ask for a round, Edge thought fuck it, fuck it all.

He stopped Adam and asked for the bottle.

As it turned out, Sting was a nice guy - down to earth, easy once you got past it all - and Edge didn’t know why he’d felt so wrong. He’d met people more famous, and if he was to believe the hype, they were on the cusp of it all. Bono especially, and Edge kept one eye on him as he went, couldn’t help himself, and it had become a practiced move back when they were barely old enough to drink.

Adam filled Edge’s glass, kept it coming, and he was loud, they all were so loud. The night moved quickly, and Bono was back and forth, laughing fast, shouting and singing Bowie, a high pitched _angel_ that went on and turned into _Lola, L-O-L-A Lola_ , the glass in his hand a constant until he moved onto shots, drinking like he was on a mission from God. Edge lost the conversation completely, sure he wasn’t missing much, and he drifted away, far far away.

He shook his head when Adam went to pour him another. He got a look, and then Adam went ahead anyway, filling Edge’s glass with such careful precision that it was almost admirable. He grabbed Edge’s shoulder tightly, and leaned in close. “I’ll be back,” he said loudly. “I’m going, but you don’t, don’t move.”

“Alright,” Edge said. He watched Adam go, not sure where he was off to, and he wondered if Adam even knew. He turned back too quick and grabbed at the table when it began to blur. He blinked and it was alright, it really was, and he looked at the glass in front of him and then across the table.

They were alone together, and Edge wasn’t quite sure when that had happened, he didn’t even know what time it was, and Bono was resting his head on his arms. He was so quiet, so still that Edge figured he had to be be asleep.

Edge set his palms against the tabletop, leaned in close, and Bono turned his head. He looked wrong, he looked so wrong that Edge very nearly panicked, very nearly jumped up to look around to find the person who had caused it, and it all came back far too quickly. “Bono.” It sounded loud in his head, but he wasn’t sure, and it took Bono a moment. He smiled at Edge, almost, pulled himself up and rubbed at his eye until it was redder still. “You alright?”

“I’m tired,” Bono said. He pushed at an empty glass until it fell over, and Edge looked around the room for assistance. He’d lost Adam, truly. “I don’t know. . .”

Bono shook his head, and Edge had to do something. He sighed, and when Bono looked up at him, he said, “I’m sorry.” It wasn't what he wanted to say, but he felt better for saying it, and when Bono nodded Edge knew there was more to do.

They found the bathroom, stumbled into it, and the man at the sink looked back quickly, then glanced again and Edge nearly told him to fuck off. He left on his own accord, and they were alone, the lights so bright it was like sweet torture.

Edge held Bono’s arm, helped him undo his pants when the struggle became too real, and they were a couple of fools. No wonder the man had looked. He kept his hand at Bono’s hip while Bono pissed for an age and it was completely normal, it was.

They looked like hell in the mirror, and Edge sat Bono down on the closed toilet lid before turning back and tending to his needs. It was a slight struggle to get his own pants undone, he should have stopped a drink or two earlier, he was sure now, and Edge hadn’t quite realized how badly he’d needed to go until he was standing at the urinal, the release almost painful.

Bono was quiet, so quiet it was scary, his hair limp, sticking to his forehead. He looked at Edge, head against the wall, and sighed. “You needa be sick?” Edge asked. Bono shook his head, and he was pale, clammy, and Edge wasn’t convinced. “Sure?”

Bono squinted, thought about it, really thought about it. “No?”

They waited, drank from the tap when it seemed safe enough, and they found themselves out on the street. The breeze was cool and Edge felt a little straighter, a little wiser, and he couldn’t believe how patient he felt, how suddenly bright he was as he stood there, watching Bono struggle into the car. He slid in next to him, kept Bono in the middle seat and buckled himself up before helping Bono, and he had to think for a moment when the driver asked where they were going. He closed his eyes, briefly, and managed a smile when he found Bono with his head turned, watching him.

He looked out the window, but the streetlights streaked and he couldn’t stand it, and when Bono sighed in his ear, he knew he’d done wrong. “I’m sorry,” Bono mumbled, and Edge didn’t know why. He wrapped his arm around Bono’s shoulders, pulled him closer, brushed the hair from his face and Bono huffed a laugh out against Edge’s neck. He smelled like alcohol, 40% pure and straight from the bottle. It was mixed with sweat and the usual smell that Bono had about him, and Edge turned his face till his nose was pressed into Bono’s hair.

“It’s alright,” he insisted.

Bono shook his head. “Sorry.”

It was incredibly late, Edge could tell by how few people were out and about, how empty the lobby was. He watched their feet, careful with his steps and pulled Bono back when he started to drift towards reception. “The tiles, Edge.”

“Yeah.” He wondered where Adam had gone, if he was back looking for Edge, if Larry had made it back alright. They were alone in the elevator, and Edge wasn’t surprised, and they stood there huddled for far too long before Edge leaned forward and selected their floor. He leaned back against the wall.

Bono’s breath was hot against his neck, and Edge watched the wall until Bono’s fingers started at his belt. “Edge,” he murmured, then laughed and the doors slid open.

“Come on.”

Bono’s room was tucked away around a corner, and Edge thought it for the best, get him back, get him safe into bed before dragging himself away, and it seemed like such a plan. Edge propped him up against the wall, reached into his pocket for his wallet and came up empty.

Bono smiled at him, crooked, his hair in his face again and when Edge went for the other pocket, Bono came alive. “Edge.” The hand found his belt again and he shifted forward, grabbed Edge’s shoulder, wet his lips and sighed. “I’d let you,” he said, and Edge didn’t quite understand until Bono leaned in, hand trailing from his belt, down, down until he was fumbling between Edge’s thighs. His breath was sharp, hot against Edge’s mouth and Edge could taste the drink when Bono kissed him, sloppy, wet and he let it happen.

He nearly let go, nearly pushed in. He wanted to taste more, wanted to feel that hand shift more, back and forth and it wasn’t enough. His vision blurred, and he blinked it away, and Bono was too close, too much red against the blue in his eyes.

Edge batted his hands away. “Stop,” he blurted, and Bono’s face fell. He stared back, lost, his gaze uncomprehending until it turned and when Edge again reached for his wallet, Bono shoved him back.

“I got it,” he snapped.

He didn’t, and he didn’t fight Edge, just looked back towards the hallway, arm tight around his midsection as Edge unlocked the door.

Edge left him on the bed, came back with a glass of water and made Bono drink, and he helped Bono with his shoes, left him to deal with his jacket before guiding him down towards the pillow. He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and Bono stared at him, eyes wet, looking like a lost boy. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

Edge knew he couldn’t, not now, not when it was all on him. “I won’t.”

He sat on the carpet, back against the wall, and he could fall asleep, there on the ground. He knew it could happen if he just closed his eyes, as tired as he was, and he was so fucking tired, but Edge didn’t, just watched Bono watching him. It was a terrible feeling, and he nearly wanted to cry, a couple more drinks and he might have, and when Bono drifted off Edge waited a few minutes to make sure, before getting up and joining him on the bed. His head was heavy and it was strange, so strange, how he almost felt like he was floating.

He started awake, and it wasn’t exactly welcome. He felt wrong, in his body, his stomach and at the back of his neck, leading up and up to pound behind his eyes. Edge didn’t know why, was almost sure he’d not drank that much, and he looked to the window and tried to figure out the time. It was still early, the morning light barely shining through, and he rolled over and saw that he was alone.

He got up, pushed the bathroom door open and wrinkled his nose, and Bono didn’t look at him. He stayed crowded against the toilet, cheeks streaked and a shine at his lips and Edge reached over and flushed the toilet. That got a response from Bono, a shake of the head and then a pained groan, and Edge drank from the tap like the civilized man that he was before joining Bono on the cool tiles.

They stayed there for a while, Edge’s hand on Bono’s back, rubbing gently until Bono could pull himself together just enough to get up off the floor. Edge wet the hand towel, made Bono rinse his mouth out before sitting him onto the closed toilet lid. He let Bono wipe his face before taking the towel back, and he cleaned his shirt, his hands before washing the sick from Bono’s hair as best as he could. “You’re a mess,” he said, because he felt like he had to say something, and Bono looked like he wanted to cry.

“I know,” he muttered.

They made their way back to the bed, and Edge looked to the wall while Bono tossed and turned before finally settling into a restless sleep. Edge slept for a while, he was almost sure, and the room was brighter when he sat up. He stayed in the shower until the aches were almost gone, until all he was left with was the twist and turn of his stomach, and he cleaned up the bathroom as best as he could before returning to the bed. The night came back in pieces, in a way that he just couldn’t ignore, and he thought about leaving.

It didn’t seem right, and when Bono rolled over to face him, Edge smiled and asked how he was feeling.

He kept the room as dark as he could, and stayed quiet until Bono was feeling a bit more human, a little bit more like himself. They drank black coffee and plenty of water and watched the television on low, and when Bono turned to him with that look on his face, Edge wasn’t quite ready for it. “Last night’s a bit of a blur.” His voice was hoarse, and Edge smiled tightly back at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “A total blur.” It was a lie, it was a stupid lie, and Bono peered at him until Edge had to move. Bono stopped him, a hand on his wrist, before Edge could leave the bed. “What?”

“I remember a bit,” Bono said, and Edge knew what was coming. “Did I - did I kiss you?”

Edge knew the longer he stayed silent the worse it became, but he just couldn’t figure out a response. No would have been easy, but he could tell from Bono’s face that it wasn’t an out; it was too late.

Bono smiled slightly, nodded, and looked back to the television. It was out there now, and Edge knew he needed to be logical about it, before he completely panicked. “Bono-”

“I don’t regret it.” Bono looked back at him, shrugged, and there was a _but_ hanging in the air. Edge knew, he could tell from Bono’s expression that Bono knew it too, and in the end, Edge was the one to say it.

 

***

 

He tapped his foot and stared at the closed door, and the phone rang and rang until Edge slammed it down with such forcible finality that the entire thing went crashing to the ground. He got up and walked a few determined steps away before turning around and scooping the phone back up to its rightful position. He thought about trying again – third time’s the charm, they always said – but he just didn’t have it in him. He was tired, tired in a way he’d not quite ever known, and it was as surprising as it was debilitating.

There were thoughts there sometimes, and they came late at night as he found another reason to stay up an hour longer, and early in the morning when he wished for ten more minutes, and they were at their worst in the hours between. It was a shitstorm of a mess, and Edge just didn’t know much longer he could last.

He looked to the door, looked to the bed and considered his options, and he walked to the window and pushed the curtains aside. The sky was a dusky pink, the sun almost gone and it was still early back home in Dublin. Early and cold, and Edge had woken up late with the sheets sticking to his skin and that first drink of water a godsend, and they’d been driven up into the hills where the paddocks were green and yellow and he’d drank German beer with Larry while Bono had stuck to Riesling. “This is wine country,” Bono had proclaimed, though Edge was sure they were on the wrong side of the city for that. He hadn’t said as much though; he’d just been glad to see Bono smile after the week he’d endured.

Spring had a different smell in Australia, and it reminded him too much of something he should have long let go of. He’d walked the narrow street and kept his hat low and brushed the flies from his face, and he’d stopped inside a store looking for a gift for Aislinn. He’d left with a ring, a deep blue opal that was neither her size nor her type, and Edge didn’t understand himself sometimes.

He could have stayed in that town, could have found a room and awoken early enough to watch the sun rise through the trees above, but they’d driven back into the city and he’d kept his window cracked barely an inch and kept the smell of spring until Larry had told him to hike it on up.

He’d kept the ring in its little brown paper bag, and he’d slipped it into his suitcase as soon as he’d gotten back to his room. Maybe for Christmas or Bono’s birthday, or maybe it would just sit in the back of a drawer until it was forgotten.

He sat on the bed and redialled the number, and he stared at the closed door as it rang and rang and he felt calm as he settled the receiver back into its cradle, and Edge rubbed at his eye and thought about just giving up on the day. He’d been awake nearly till dawn, listening to the fan hum above his head and thinking mindless things until he couldn’t ignore it any longer, and the thought of a simple touch had been enough to drag his hand low, lower until the need became near overwhelming.

Edge opened the door slowly and a part of him, a very small part had hoped that Bono had just given up and gone elsewhere for company.  But Bono was still there on the couch, pen and paper in his hand and completely oblivious. Edge had left him there after an early dinner with the promise of heading out for drinks soon, and he’d listened to Bono rummaging and muttering through Edge’s things until he just had to shut the door. Gavin had named Bono the Irish Inspector Clouseau more than once, and sometimes it just seemed fitting.

The room was still in fair condition and Bono was scrawling somewhat fiercely in the notebook, his feet on the couch and his hair in his face. His left hand was tapping on his thigh to the rhythm in his head, and Edge knew he could turn around and walk right back into his bedroom and Bono would be completely unaware. He stayed there in the doorway and watched as Bono brought his hand up and brushed the hair from his face, his expression one of pure frustration and Edge was certain he would cut it all off one day. He dreaded the thought. He watched Bono pause, finger to his lips as he considered what was in front of him, and Edge found himself wondering, and not for the first time, what it felt like to go mad.

He lingered in the doorway, and he knew exactly how he wanted to proceed. It left his skin prickling and his throat dry, and it was a feeling that sat heavy and low in his belly and when Bono glanced up, Edge wasn’t prepared in the slightest. He looked startled, but it slipped away fast and was replaced with a smile. His eyes were the clearest they’d been all week and there was colour back in his cheeks, and his voice was smooth as he asked, “Did you reach them?”

Edge knew that Bono would sit there with wide eyes, all attention while Edge told him about his marriage, and that he would listen and listen and touch Edge’s arm. Touch his wrist and hold his hand and wait for the words to come, and there was a good chance he’d find nothing. They’d been there before, heads together and quiet as they flew over the ocean. Nearly drunk enough in the back of a car, with Bono’s fingers against his pulse, his palm, threading through his own with a look that was fleeting, that was almost enough to make Edge forget.

The smile had faded, replaced with something different entirely, and there were days when Edge knew Bono just couldn’t quite get a handle on what was going on inside Edge’s head, and there were days where all it took was one look.

It was maddening, how quickly the guilt came and, worse, how quickly it was replaced, and there was never shame when he pictured it in the dark. “Edge.” He could see it all over Bono’s face, and it was like the weight had shifted from his shoulders and settled deep within, and he knew. He was almost sure, and he crossed the room before he lost his nerve.

Bono let the notebook go easily and set the pen in the crease, and the way his gaze kept on sent a wave of giddiness through Edge that he hadn’t quite expected. He was glad for it though, and he set the notebook on the table behind Bono’s head and hovered there until Bono reached out and grasped his wrist. He sat down on the small space left near Bono’s hip, and Bono’s thumb brushed against thin skin and his fingers curled and Edge knew that he should get up and leave; go for a drink or a few and in the morning they’d both pretend like it had never happened.

It was the only option and they’d settled this. They had, and it didn’t feel like three years, but Bono’s eyes were shining and he was worrying his lip with his teeth, and when he smiled it was barely there but it was enough to keep Edge on the couch. Bono looked to their hands, his breath shuddering on the exhale and his hair slipping from behind his ear, and Edge knew that they were fucked.

He shifted forward and stopped himself, and he could feel Bono’s breath warm against his lips and see the trepidation in Bono’s eyes, close, too close and Edge murmured, “It’s alright.” He’d never been able to convince himself and when Bono nodded, Edge closed his eyes against the doubt written all over Bono’s face.

He breathed, and then Bono was kissing him.

It was a simple brush of the lips, and it was enough to make Edge open his eyes. Bono was looking back at him, his face open in a way that Edge had never quite seen before, and Edge couldn’t tear his eyes away. He wanted Bono to tell him, he was almost desperate to hear Bono tell him to stop, to get up and walk away before they crossed a line, and he knew it wasn’t fair on Bono. It was his choice, and Bono touched his neck and sighed and Edge couldn’t wait any longer. Their noses bumped and Edge turned his head just so and then he was kissing Bono like he’d pictured it so many times, and Bono’s hair wasn’t as soft as he thought it might be between his fingers, but he clutched at Edge’s shirt and moaned like Edge had never been able to imagine, and Edge pulled Bono closer and it wasn’t enough.

He stopped, pulled away so quickly that it surprised even himself, and Bono’s eyes were bright as he stared at Edge. The words wouldn’t come, and Edge just stared right on back. There was too much colour in Bono’s cheeks, skipping past his jaw and starting again at his neck, and his chest heaved and he looked towards the wall. “Edge-”

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t what either of them needed to hear, but he had nothing else. Bono shook his head, and he looked stricken. He brushed the hair from his face and touched at his temple and his hand shook and his fingers curled and Edge needed to hear him say it, so he could just walk away.

It could be that easy and it was the best chance for Edge to leave, but he knew that he was lying to himself when Bono turned back with a shaky smile that was Edge’s complete undoing. He gripped Bono’s shoulders and guided him back until his head found the cushion and his legs fell straight, and Bono’s stomach tightened under his hand and his breath quickened and Edge knew he had to get closer.

“Can I-” He shook his head; it felt strange to say it out loud, and he focused on the shift of Bono’s shirt as his hand went higher, and he glanced up to find Bono watching him. His face said it all, and Edge undid Bono’s top button. He’d seen more, he’d seen everything and still his hand shook as he reached for the second button. He touched warm skin and coarse hair and Bono’s eyes closed and his feet slid together. Edge brushed a nipple with his fingers, then his lips, his tongue, and he stayed there until Bono’s head fell back.

Edge felt wrong in his skin, like he was breathing wrong and his chest might burst, and it wasn’t fair on Bono. It wasn’t, and he couldn’t believe it and he looked at the line of Bono’s jaw and listened to his breath coming out too fast, and he moved up until he could feel Bono’s moan vibrate against his lips. He mouthed at Bono’s adam’s apple and tasted the sweat, tasted his aftershave and Bono’s fingers dug into his arm tight, too tight and it was too much.

He brushed his hair away and kissed Bono until it fell back against their cheeks, and Bono breathed against Edge’s neck. His legs came up and apart,  and he took Edge’s hand between his own and pulled it down. He smiled at Edge, bottom lip between his teeth, eyes shining bright, and Edge was sure that they were both going mad.

He opened the bedroom window, later, when Bono was in Edge’s bed behind him and the city was beginning to wind down. He watched the headlights below and took in the noise coming up from the street, and he knew that Bono wouldn’t wake.  It was a still night, and the smoke from his cigarette didn’t travel far. He stubbed it out when he was done, lit a second and smoked that one too, and he craned his head until he could see the darkened building just on down the narrow street.

They’d paused at a red light on the drive back from the hills and Bono had watched the people crossing in front with a smile on his face, and some days Edge just didn’t know. “You know, they call it the city of churches,” Bono had said, and he’d stayed on the people ahead like they were ducklings passing through.

Larry had sighed from the front seat, and he’d glanced out the window like he was on the hunt. “Do they now?” he’d asked anyway, and the light had turned green. Bono had said the same thing the last time they’d flown in, and Edge was sure he’d said it on the next trip, if they made it that far.

“It’s beautiful,” Edge had said, and Bono’s smile had been brilliant.

It was too late and the church stayed dark, and Edge knew he should get up early and walk down the narrow street and lose himself for a while inside. It seemed like the right thing to do, though he just didn’t know anymore. They had a show tomorrow and he was tired, he was so tired that he just wanted to slip between the sheets and stay there, and he shut the window quietly and turned towards the bed.

Bono was still asleep, the sheet clinging to him like a second skin despite the fan droning above, and Edge went and sat at his side. He watched Bono’s chest rise and fall and his eyes shift underneath his lids, and Edge wondered what he was dreaming about. He hoped it was only good things. Bono’s fingers were curled loose by his face, and Edge knew that touch now. The urge to wake him was near overwhelming, and Edge pushed himself from the bed and walked into the next room.

He didn’t quite know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t changed since they’d stumbled out of it, and he crossed the room and sat on the couch. He straightened the pillows and ran his hand along the couch’s arm before reaching for Bono’s notebook.

It was mostly nonsense, words and drawings that made little sense to Edge but formulated a grander plan in Bono’s frenzied mind, and he was sure that there was beauty there among the chaos. He recognized a few select phrases that Bono had bandied about recently, phrases Edge knew would haunt Bono until he could twist and turn them into something, slip them from his mind.  The drawing towards the bottom reminded Edge of little matchstick men making their way off the page.

For someone like Bono, it seemed almost too simple.

He set the notebook back on the table with the pen still set in the crease and poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen. He drank slowly and rinsed the glass out, and he left the room and came back and poured another glass and turned the lights out on the way into the bedroom. He set the glass down on the bedside table on Bono’s side, and Bono didn’t stir when Edge climbed in beside him. Edge was glad for it. He had no idea what he might say to Bono and he was tired, and he knew that if he saw that look on Bono’s face again he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Maybe in the morning he might. He closed his eyes and listened to Bono breathe, and he could see it clearly, the way Bono had touched his cheek and smiled at him afterwards, before turning away to hide it all.

 

***

 

Edge remembered it well, looking across the school yard and seeing him with his hair in his eyes and a guitar in his hands. He’d heard of Paul Hewson through eavesdropping on the girls’ conversations in class, and he’d seen him in the hall and rarely in the library but once in the principal’s office as he’d passed on through, and that had been enough to paint a picture.

But the guitar had been new.

He’d sat on the grass nearby as he ate his sandwich, and he’d been close enough to hear every stop and start; close enough to see the crooked smile that followed each chord played and the excited faces of the girls that surrounded him. He thought it all a bit ridiculous really.

He’d finished his sandwich and started on an apple, and he’d lost interest in the spectacle and moved on to watching the football game when the shadow had come over him. “Dave, right?” he’d asked, squinting against the sun, and he hadn’t waited for an answer. “Can I sit with you, Dave?” He’d sat down before Edge could speak, and he’d smiled and drummed his fingers against the wood of his guitar as he spoke, and it had taken Edge all of twenty minutes to understand why the girls hung around.

He always felt a bit strange being at Bono’s, and it was an odd feeling that sat in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t quite figure. It wasn’t like at home, with his mother bustling here and there and the windows so clean that it was easy to pretend that he could almost touch the sky if he only kneeled on the kitchen counter.

There were touches of that warmth left in Bono’s house that told Edge he’d had it once, but it didn’t feel like a home and sometimes late at night, Edge found himself feeling so desperately sad for Bono that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face him come morning.

He barely had time to say hello to Bono’s father before he was being dragged through the house and up the stairs, Bono’s feet thudding with each step he took, and he shut the door loudly behind them and sat down on the bed with a smile that wasn’t all there. “Alright?” Edge asked.

“Fine,” Bono said, and Edge didn’t quite believe him. He hesitated, and the smile dropped. “What?”

“Nothing.” Edge sat down on the bed and brought out his guitar and slipped the case under the bed to rid the room of unnecessary clutter.

He’d tried the length of the room once when Bono had slipped downstairs, and it had been all of five steps. It had left him feeling like a caged animal, and he’d looked out the window and watched the clouds roll in until the door had opened behind him. They’d taken the bus into town, him holding the stepladder and Bono the drill, and he’d stood off to the side and watched the people watching Bono; three steps up, drill in hand and as still as he’d ever been. Performance art, Bono had called it after, and it hadn’t been his first time.

He tuned his guitar while Bono shifted and fidgeted and when he looked up he found Bono with his gaze fixed on the wall and his knuckles white against his thighs. Edge stared until Bono turned his head, and he glanced down at his guitar with a sheepish smile. “So, what do you want to do?”

Bono was silent for a moment and Edge was sure that was it, but then Bono shrugged. “What do you know?” he asked. It was an easy question, and Edge felt a bit stupid for it. He wracked his brain for something they hadn’t tried, and Bono was patient until he wasn’t. “Come on, Edge.” He smiled and slapped his hand against Edge’s knee. “Don’t be shy, it’s only me.”

Edge smiled and shook his head, and shy wasn’t the problem. He landed on it then and he wasn’t sure why it had taken him so long to get there, but it didn’t matter. He adjusted his guitar and then again and he started to play, that riff that was so familiar to him and his family and anyone who’d had the misfortune to pass on by while he’d been learning, and Bono’s eyes light up. “Status Quo!” he shouted, so loud that Edge nearly lost his place. He recovered and nearly lost it again when Bono started to sing, the wrong lyrics but the right key and Edge ducked his head and focused on the strings. He was getting better. They were all getting better, and Edge couldn’t help himself, he had to look back on up and watch Bono sing.

It was beginning to become a problem.

He stopped when Bono did, abruptly and only halfway through, and Bono rubbed his neck and twisted his mouth and looked at Edge so seriously that Edge didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Can I stay at your house tonight?”

“Alright,” Edge said, and Bono smiled and reached for Edge’s guitar. Edge let it slip away from him easily, and he watched Bono pluck at the strings and the smile was gone, and Edge wanted to ask. He wanted to shift closer and tell him it was okay, but he didn’t know. He didn’t have an extra bed at home, and he thought that he should call his mum and tell her that Bono was coming, thought that he should pull Ali aside one day after class and he smiled when Bono glanced up at him.

It was all the encouragement Bono seemed to need. He started to play in earnest, a Beatles tune that reminded Edge of summer days spent in the kitchen with his mum, a record playing and her singing along as he beat the eggs and she helped him knead the dough. He’d not been allowed near the stove and it had always been disappointing, and his mum would smile down at him and tell him maybe when he was older.

“Do you need to ask your dad?” Edge asked.

Bono shrugged. “I should.”  He smiled at Edge and started to sing, and he knew the words to Blackbird like he knew the back of his hand. Edge stood and went to sift through Bono’s record collection, and nothing had changed since last time he’d looked.

He’d watched Siobhan through the kitchen window when she played across the street, and he’d gotten up the courage to go play with her a few times, and her eyes had been blue and her nose covered in freckles, and he’d lost interest in her a few weeks later. It had been normal and his mum had laughed at him every time he’d wandered back on inside, and he wondered if she knew.

What would she think, because Edge knew that it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He hoped it would pass like it had with Siobhan. He was sure that it would pass.

 


End file.
